


Saturday in the Seam

by anaadele



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 22:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaadele/pseuds/anaadele
Summary: One-Shot; Gale playing with Posy, trying to get her to take a nap.





	Saturday in the Seam

Home sweet home. I let a slow stream of air escape my lips as my eyes survey the living area of our small house. Despite my mother being in the back room, I quickly distinguish the smoldered look on my face. I try not to bring any frustrations concerning the Capitol or District 12 around my family.

"Sh! The baby," she blurts out. Posy is three and despises naps.

"Sorry," I send back.

In the Seam, a husband and wife are assigned a shack, identical to every other home in the Seam. While everyone in the Seam has at least a resemblance of a roof over his or her head, not everyone is lucky enough to have a home.

My mother has taken such good care of our space that I think anyone would find it more welcoming than the fancy shops in the square. Somehow it appears brighter, smells nicer, and is by far cleaner than most houses outlining the District. She has a knack for taking the standard and making it special.

I rub the soles of my boots across the thin mat at the base of the front door, dampened already from Rory and Vick. I look up to see them stack the final log of wood near the fireplace.

Summers just run out and fall is approaching, though the weather's been unusually cold. Not a good sign for winter, if the temperatures now can display our breath. It's been cold and raining for the past week.

Vick's eyes twitched in excitement, meaning he's ready to play. "Vick! Wash your paws," I say, nodding to the basin on the far-left side of the room.

"You too, Rory," I add, before he smudges dirt over the freshly cleaned front room.

It's Saturday, and while I was out hunting with Katniss till midday, my siblings endured my mother's tedious weekly regime of housework. I did my fair share when I arrived home; dusting things my mother couldn't reach, sweeping out the fireplace, and chopping wood. You'd think living in the mining district, we'd have enough coal to go around, but with the Capitol demanding most of it, wood is a safe back up for cold nights.

"Gale Hawthorne! You're filthy!" my mother scolds. She's in the backroom struggling with Posy who jumped out of bed upon hearing the door shut. The entrance is a straight shot to the front door, clear view.

"I had some frisky game," I joke. "Neither of us wanted to give up the nuts."

"Not another step, Gale. Boots and jacket off, and stripped those pants by the door as well," she says loudly. I  _am_ uncommonly grimy, even for a day of hunting. My pants are caked with dirt; damp with mud at all spots familiar with the ground.

I glare enough to indicate my irritations of a rousing mother, but not long enough to be disrespectful. I've been recognized as a man for years now, nonetheless Hazelle Hawthorne is my mother.

As my younger brothers shoot pass me to greet our mother, I can hear her beckoning them to now take their shoes off. It's often too cold in the winter to go without, but the lone bedroom in the shack remains off-limits. Hanging my clothes on the door, I turn to the sink. Scrubbing my hands clean, the freezing water sends a chill up my spine. Adorned in only my skivvies the chill lingers.

The lack of hot water would be surprisingly manageable to an outsider, as bathing is the only real need for it. My mother says it makes no difference when it comes to cooking because a fire is required to boil water regardless of how it comes out of the spout.

I glance to my right at the tub, stationed just a couple feet from the stove. Surely, Madge, the Mayor's daughter, would be appalled at the idea of bathing in the kitchen, but she's never had to continuously heat water then carry it to fill a five-foot long aluminum basin either.

My father was smart and resourceful, and I think he could have been an architect if things were different. We learned 'bout them in school; memories of my dad carefully breaking the bathroom wall interlock with what the teachers' told us about designing and remodeling.

My parents always wanted children and they were brave enough to dream of us from the start. It's near impossible working in the mines to save enough money to move out of the Seam, and the Seam only has one floor plan. Two decent rooms separated with a bathroom on the kitchen side and a row of closest dividing the backroom from the front. Three if you count the back room as two separate rooms. Guess my parents figured a couple feet would be easier than a couple yards when lugging buckets of water to the tub. With my father gone, I admit I'm grateful for the consideration…

"Posy!" my mother yells. "Please come take your nap." Her voice is quieter and overtired. Posy must have run into the front room while I thinking about what- a stupid tub?

"Hm," I think aloud. That's been happening a lot lately, I'll just start reminiscing or calculating and before I know it, I've been standing there looking like a dummy.

"Posy!" There's my mother again. I pass by the TV table and around to the back of the loveseat that adorns the front room.

"I'll get her ma," I shout softly. I hear her sigh in acceptance and she gives Rory and Vick directions I can't quite make out. I kneel behind the ugly green couch, puke-green, if I could name it, and lay out so that I'm on my side against the floor. Propped on one elbow, I outstretch my right arm to tickle Posy's ear.

Instantly she giggles and spins around to face me. The oversized tunic falls just above her clothed-covered knees. She's the prettiest little girl in the District and hands down best looking in our family. Katniss says I'm biased, but Posy is so happy, nothing but beauty radiates from her. If I couldn't pick Posy, I would pick Prim.

"Hey sweet girl, playing with Belle?" She nods.

"Yes," she squeals. "You want to play bubby?"

"Of course, Posy, but you play Belle, I'm much more beastly than you," I say tapping her nose with my forefinger. Somehow, I imagine that's how my father would interact with her.

"You say the story, Gale." She rubs the yarn hair of the doll repeatedly. "Belle just wants to listen now."

"Well, mama tells it better—"

"I tink she's lonely," Posy interrupts me. Her lip pouting slightly, I know exactly what she's doing. A story past down on my mother's side, Beauty and the Beast was told to us all. And ever since Posy got that doll and named it Belle, it's been obvious she felt she needed a Beast.

"That's why you got me silly," I say, wiggling my fingers around her waist sending her into a spurt of laughter.

It's on my list, her Beast doll, or at least the material for my mother to make one. A trio of color pencils is on it for Vick; decent knife for Rory, too, he's grown out of the one shared with Vick; a delicacy for my mother; and, two small clay beads for a gift I plan on giving Katniss…And that's just short-list.

"You're not like the Beast," she says very straightforward, "you're like the Prince!" I can't help but smile, the onslaught of attention from girls at school tell me I'm good-looking.

"'Cause the Prince is not as  _big_ as the Beast and you just ain't as fwuffy or soft either." But they're nothing compared to my three-year-old sister humbling me. By now Posy has crawled in the nook between my chest and the ground, leaning against me.

I let a friendly grunt escape my throat. She may only be three, but whereas even the Capitol people with their crazy styles would be outraged by a real-life Beast, Posy finds his beauty; big, fluffy, and soft.

"You're the Prince Beast!" she exclaims. I furrow my brow so even she can understand, and she explains, "you're hansum like the Prince and sweet like the Beast!" And only like Posy can, she lets me down ever so gently. Her opinion matters a lot to me, above even Katniss', which really could be flip-flopped because Katniss  _matters_ a lot to me too.

"I'll take it, Po. Much better than what the girls at school think of me," I say, winking at her. I could listen to her all afternoon, but I know a delayed nap will cause a disruption for us all when the moon rises.

"Yaaargh," I force a yawn out to show Posy I'm tired. "I'm sleepy, will you come take a nap with me Posy?" She'll fight it, but she's worn out. Posy nods and lifts her arms toward my neck. I get my feet under me and lift her while I stand.

I see the quiet commotion I heard while talking to Posy is Rory and Vick heating fresh water for the tub. As I bounce Posy soothingly on my hip, she rests her head in the alcove under my chin. My mother washes her in the same soap we all use, yet Posy's hair forever smells different; like an arrangement of flowers matched together in scent and style. Fitting as it is her namesake.

I pace the short distance to our bedroom, a room scaling the width of the kitchen and front room in one shot. Long ago the thin wall removed because of rotting wood. It was useless anyhow; much thinner than the outer walls and just partitioned one side of the room from the other. A cream color sheet took its place, once allowing my parents a certain amount of privacy. With my father dead, we all vote being able to see each other over privacy.

The woods are my opportunity for seclusion.

Enough light is shining through the window on the right wall and I promise my mother looks like an angel. She's let her long brunette hair hang off one shoulder and the different shades of red and gold glimmer in the sun. I reckon from what I can see, she's letting out pair of Rory's pants, ripping at the stitches. She makes even that seem delicate.

"I think she's settled mama," I finally say.

Kip, a friend at school, overheard me talking to my mother once and taunted me for a week for using the childlike phrase. I didn't tell him but in my father's voice I can still hear: 'mama and I are doing this,' 'go ask mama,' 'give your mama a kiss," and therefore if my dad adored that specific title so much, I do too. Using other tactics, he quit the mindless teasing.

"Po and I are ready for that nap," I say. Since I corralled the baby, I'm hopeful I've gained some downtime as well.

"Here," she says, taking Posy from me. "You, however, are not laying on my sheets lined in dirt and soot."

"Mama, please," I beg, now indeed sounding like a child. I quickly utter out for distraction, "Posy wants to hear Beauty and the Beast!" Posy claps her hands wildly.

"Yes, mama, Beauty and the Beast and Prince Bubby," she exclaims pointing my direction. I know my smile looks dopey. Posy is the greatest bargaining tool.

"Well, Miss Posy," my mother nudges Posy's chin up with her finger, "bubby needs a bath. How about we start the story and when he is all clean, he  _will_  finish it." I put it in Posy's head that we would nap together and now she won't sleep unless I'm near her. My mother knows this and once again the women in my family get one over on me, as I originally told Posy mama's version of the story was much better.

"Okay," Post elongates. "Hurry bubby." My mother grins, kissing Posy's forehead.

"Bath, Gale. Go on now, the tub should be ready," my mother says sternly. I sigh, part in defeat, part in anticipation. Soaking in some warmth appeals to me now.

I reach the basin, while my mother calls out, "and Gale Hawthorne do not make me check under your finger nails. Soap your hair, too!" There's the slightest hint of amusement in her voice, so I affirm I've heard her. Mothers.

I trail my fingers across the top of the water, the warmth from that alone soothes me. My towel, washrag, and soap from the Hob are already set out on a short stool next to the tub. Rory and Vick sit across at the dinner table playing Jacks, a game create hundreds of years ago, and this one specifically a token that belonged to my father.

"Thanks fellas," I say motioning to the bathwater. It takes a good amount of work to warm and move, and as oblivious as I was while playing with Posy, I'm grateful they filled it for me.

"Uh-huh."

"Your welcome," Vick says, neither looking up from the game.

When my father moved the basin near the stove, he enclosed the toilet with a thin wall and door. He hung a curtain from the ceiling, so my mother could bathe in seclusion.

I pull my dark undershirt over my head; smelling it for continued wear, I conclude it'll probably need to be washed. It's littered with small holes, as most of our clothes are to some degree. I strip down my boxers and am pleased they're still hole-free. Even though you don't see them, just feels odd to me if my shorts are tattered.

I climb in the tub and submerge my head back. At first my body shivers then tingle and finally accustoms to the temperature. I stay under till I run out of air, 3 minutes at least, maybe more. I'm a descent swimmer thanks to Katniss and her dad's lake. When I topside I take the cloth and soap and begin rubbing down my legs.

Other than my mother, we don't use the curtain. I've washed the boys plenty of times, we've each helped with Posy, and of course mama's bathed us all. Being naked makes no difference; the boys are barely paying me any mind. Maybe that's strange, I don't know, and I really don't care. Trips to the tub are short anyhow, usually one person's getting in before the one getting out has even dried off. Most nights me, Rory and Vick will all use the same water. Mama must have had them bathe earlier in the day.

My mother was right about my fingernails; I sure didn't get the muck out earlier. Even though winters not yet begun, I let my mind wander to summer. It'll roll around with a heat wave so strong you can boil an egg on stone. The boys and I love the days when we can walk around the house in just our shorts. Reminds me that I didn't grab a clean pair or shirt for when I towel off.

I ask Rory to fetch some for me and he grudgingly agrees. I thank him as I finish my upper body. Lathering up the soap in my hand, I use it best I can through my hair, per mama's request. Dunking again and again rinsing it off. I lay in the tub till I hear Posy's faint whimper. If she was tired before, she's exhausted now, and about as stubborn as Katniss.

I decided I owe my mother whatever help I can lend and end my luxurious spa early, warm water still lingering about. Another yawn escapes my mouth as I'm drying off. I could really use a nap too, Po. I drain the tub and set my towels out to dry and my used clothes in the basket near the linen cabinet.

"Where are we at Posy?" I ask, sitting next to my mother on the bed she and Posy share. Posy just grunts with her arms crossed.

"We've already finished," my mother sighs, "it was a quick version today."

"And you  _missed_  it Gale." Posy and Vick resemble our mother's skin rather than our fathers, whereas Rory and I share his olive tone. Her fatigue splotches her cheeks in a deep pink and her soft green eyes are puffy like those strange fish I've seen in books.

"I can tell you another story," I barter, "a brand new one, just for you." I slip my arm her tiny shoulders and tickle underarm. She withholds for a moment but giggles under the pressure. "I love when you laugh Posy." I love when they all laugh, it's so refreshing, reminds me that if I can change the world they live in, I will.

"Miss Posy, how about you scoot over and let your big brother lay down with you," my mother suggests. Posy nods with enthusiasm, "eee, yes Gale, lay with me!"

Mother of all mothers; I know she couldn't do it without me and that's not to be conceited, however she keeps us a family, telling the boys to enjoy the sunshine or dance in the rain, offers me whatever likeness of youth I'll accept and continually reminds us that we choose how we act. Despite the Capitol's rule over the Districts they can't produce what we think, and in a world where we can decide so little for ourselves, our thoughts are sacrosanct.

I climb under the worn sheets and lift Posy up over me, so she's closer to our mother and I can cradle and see mama as well. It's peculiar, I feel almost weightless as my head hits the pillow.

I sleep on the opposite side of the room with my brothers. Rory and Vick share what I think they call a full-size bed and I on a mattress set directly in front on the floor. Fortunate as I am  _to_  have a bed to myself, it's a lousy one. Used well and worn when my father traded for it along ago, it's dilapidated much and truly can barely fit me comfortable in width-wise. We interchange a lot though, depending on if someone's sick and needs to sleep alone or in my case if I'm crippled by a migraine and I request the faintly more cushioned upper mat.

Me and Rory, me and Vick, me and Posy, Posy and Vick…I would never admit aloud to this, but I rather sleep next to one of them than alone. Some mornings I've woken up and have pulled one of them in with me. I figure those nights were shattered with nightmares.

And, perhaps, that's why hugging my sister close I feel so peaceful. Mama's singing softly now, but her words are barely audible to me. With my face touching the pillow and Posy just under my nose, I breathe deeply in. The scents I inhale send me deeper into tranquility. The mild aroma of flowers from Posy, my mother's unmistaken fragrance that my father had treated her to ages ago, and then my father's musk; tangy oranges with a minor scent of pine. I can feel that stupid grin creeping upon my face and I squeeze my eyes shut more.

I wear my father's jacket and it reminds me of him every time I slip it on and yet here in his bed, I feel overwhelmed by his presence. Only Katniss could understand what I'm feeling. It has everything and nothing to do with the physical remembrance of our fathers.

Each year I miss dad more, each year Rory gets closer to turning 12 and there's no stopping that. His birthday falls right after summer, so he's just nearly 11. Lucked out by the grace of a calendar, he'll be almost 13 by the time his name goes into the Reaping. I know Katniss feels the same with Prim whose name will go in next year

Even with the annual Games my father had an uncharacteristic humor about him. For someone from the Seam, too, never let a dull moment go by, he could always breathe life into every cruel expense the Capitol threw at us. I suppose that's why he and my mother were perfect together, while they complemented each other mostly, they both had spirits of the Gods, if there's such a thing—happy, forgiving, loving, and caring. I hope I'm making him proud, I hope his soul is out there somewhere, in a better place, watching us.

Posy has drifted to sleep, and my mother is onto humming, random and carefree, as I don't recognize the tune. She goes from massaging my legs to my arms and then rubbing my back and I can barely feel her stroking the hair on my forehead.

The 73rd Hunger Games claimed a victor this past week. I get the notion that this feeling I'm having is how a New Year was described centuries before when Panem was North America; a sense of relief that one-year had a past, a time of reflection for what had happened, and a fresh slate for what was to come. Inevitably, the 74th Hunger Games will come next year, but for the time being I feel safe, content that I can take care of my family for another year and believing one day the dawning a revolution will arise.

"I love you my baby boy," I hear clearly. Curled up next to my three-year-old sister, lying on her bed, I'm 17 but feel every bit my mama's baby boy.


End file.
